


Finding Grace

by Lemon Drop (quercus)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-10-09
Updated: 2000-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/Lemon%20Drop





	Finding Grace

"You're Blair Sandburg," the stranger said, smiling shyly as Blair opened the door to him.

"Yeah, yes. Do I know you?"

"No. Not yet." He blushed a little at his cryptic words, then looked over Blair's shoulder. "Is Jimmy here?"

"Yeah. Please, come in." Blair opened the door a bit wider and the stranger came into the loft. He was taller than Blair, as tall as Jim, in his early seventies, Blair estimated, with thin grey hair and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in baggy jeans and a worn Seahawks sweatshirt.

Blair shut and locked the door behind him, turning to find Jim stepping out of the bathroom, staring in apparent shock at their visitor.

"Jimmy? Oh, my god." He stepped toward Jim, then stopped; Blair saw the muscles in his back and neck tense.

At last, Jim said, "Uncle Steve?" And the two men met in the middle of the living room, their arms around each other. "Jesus, Jesus," Jim kept muttering as he held the other man tightly, who anxiously patted his back.

When they finally stepped apart, Jim led his uncle to the sofa and they sat, knees nearly bumping. "Where have you been?" Jim finally asked him. "Do Dad or Stevie know you're here? Why did you come?"

Blair sat down in the yellow chair, watching the two men. He saw how similar in appearance they were; Jim would look like Steve in thirty years. Still muscular, but softer, with a bit of a belly, nothing terrible, and with the same long thighs, the same nose, and the same coloring.

Behind Jim, the fire Blair had built earlier that evening glowed redly as it died down. For long minutes the loft was silent except for its soft hissing and popping, and the sound of the ceaseless rain sliding against the windows. Steve stared into the fire, not meeting his nephew's worried gaze, not speaking, although Blair could see his throat working.

Finally, in a choked whisper, he said, "Grace is dying, Jimmy." He looked up at Jim, tears shining in his eyes. "Please come home with me." His glance included Blair. "She needs to see you."

Blair felt a little dizzy with the rush of revelations. Jim's mother was alive. Jim had an uncle. His mother's brother? Surely not William's. And she wanted to see Jim, after all these years. Thirty years. As long as Blair had been alive. He made a small sound and moved in his chair. Jim looked up, an unreadable expression marring his handsome face. For a few seconds they stared at each other; Blair could only look steadily back, and then nodded.

Then Jim looked at his uncle. "Of course we'll come. When?"

Steve's shoulders dropped, and he smiled, a tear spilling at the movement. He wiped his face, saying, "You better come as soon as you can, Jimmy. There isn't much time left." Jim's hands tightened where they lay on his thighs. Blair felt a sudden urge to embrace his friend, but he remained seated, quiet, attentive. Jim nodded.

"You'll stay here tonight?"

"If you have room."

"We do," Blair answered, and jumped up. "I'll change the sheets," he told them, and left to straighten up his room and strip the bed. Jim came in a few moments later, his arms full of clean sheets.

"Thanks, Chief," he said, dropping the sheets onto the little desk, then shaking out the fitted bottom sheet. Together they quickly remade the futon. When Blair started wadding up the dirty sheets, Jim put his hand on Blair's back. "Blair. I." Jim took a deep breath and looked intently at the floor. "Thanks."

Blair stared at his friend. His eyes were a little red, his jaw set in the familiar clench. He continued to stare at the floor. "It's okay, Jim." Jim relaxed a little, and shrugged.

"Just. Couch'll be hard on your back."

Blair smiled. "Yeah. We're all gettin' older." Jim's smile disappeared, and Blair could've bitten off his tongue. "Jim, man," he started, but Jim patted his back comfortingly.

"It's okay, Chief. We are gettin' older." After an awkward few seconds more, Blair gave a quick glance around the room, decided it would do, and left to stuff the sheets into the hamper in the bathroom.

When he returned, Jim and Steve were pouring over a map of Puget Sound, Jim taking notes. "I have to get back," Steve was saying. "You make arrangements with your work, and then come up. At least for a couple days. But soon, Jimmy. I'm serious." His voice caught again, and this time, Jim put his arms around his uncle. Blair watched, fascinated. He felt as though he were an anthropologist again, studying another culture, the culture of extended family.

At last, Steve headed off for bed, an old pair of Jim's sweats in his hands to wear. In case he was an early riser, Blair left coffee and filters out on the kitchen counter; then he pulled a bottle of water from the cupboard. He hesitated at the foot of the stairs, uncertain, before he took it upstairs. Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Blair sat near him; he could feel a frown pulling his eyebrows together and tried to relax, to imbue Jim with the calm he needed to deal with the news of his mother. As the bed dipped, Jim dropped his hands and looked at him. He looked tired and older, nearly as old as his uncle, Blair thought, and scooted nearer. The familiar and comforting warmth of his partner calmed him, and that shamed him; he should be comforting Jim, not the other way around.

"Thanks," Jim said, and Blair suddenly realized that his presence *was* comforting Jim. He unscrewed the bottle of water and held it out; Jim drank thirstily and handed it back. He sighed, and patted Blair's shoulder before rising tiredly to begin undressing.

Blair said to his friend, "I'm sorry about your mother." Jim nodded silently. Blair thought about his own mother, his beloved Naomi, and how he'd feel if news came that she were dying. When such news would come. Tears filled his eyes and he turned, half-jogging downstairs, and quickly made up the couch.

Blair lay awake for a long time, listening to Jim toss and turn, his bed creaking lightly in the quiet night. He thought about Jim's long estrangement from his father and brother, about his isolation and silence. At last, hearing a soft sigh, he rose, pulled his robe on, and quietly returned upstairs. "Blair?" Jim whispered. "You okay?"

Blair didn't answer until he was standing next to Jim's bed, then knelt beside it, his face level with Jim's propped on an elbow. "Are you?"

The two men stared at each other in the thin light, Blair squinting to see Jim's expression. He thought Jim looked tired, and the shadows made the lines on his face deeper, older. At last, Jim lay back down, and shook his head. Impulsively, Blair stroked Jim's hair, hoping to soothe and express his sympathy and concern in a way Jim could best understand. He heard his friend sigh again.

He crouched there, gently touching his friend, until his knees began to protest. He sat down on the chilly wood floor and Jim twisted in the bed, opening his eyes to study Blair.

Again they stared at each other; a silent communication occurring, Blair thought, at some subterranean level where Jim was more fluent than he was. He swallowed nervously. Jim pulled the covers down so his arm was free and reached out to tug on Blair's wreck of a ponytail. He left his hand there for a few seconds and then cupped Blair's shoulder, his touch warm and very comforting.

At last Blair returned to his uncomfortable bed on the couch, wondering what he could do to help, if he could help, if anyone could help, if help were possible in such a situation, until, his concerns and fears still tumbling over and over, he finally slid into sleep.

* * *

Jim's mom and uncle turned out to live very near Cascade, on Blake Island, just north of Vashon Island. They had to take the ferry to Vashon, then to Southworth, and then drive an hour or so around to a small dock, well hidden. The days since Steve's visit had been difficult; Jim had been unusually silent, even for him, and Blair had not pressed him. But he watched his friend closely, worried about him, wondering about him.

As they rode in the ferry, Jim sat quietly staring out the enormous windows, lost in his thoughts, opaque to Blair. He'd smiled when Blair brought him a latte, ducking his head shyly. Blair knew he was avoiding any serious discussion of his mother; in all their years of friendship, he had rarely spoken of her. Since they'd see her soon enough, Blair let him be, but remained near him, trying to comfort him as best he could.

En route, Jim had called his uncle, so he was waiting in an open motorboat when they got there. The day was dark and overcast, with enough wind to spring whitecaps up in the Sound, and the little boat bounced the entire distance. Blair was grateful that Jim had insisted they wear slickers over their jackets; his hair and jeans were soaked by the time Steve steered them into the island's U-shaped harbor. He stood shivering on the rolling dock while Jim lifted out their backpacks and Steve tied off the boat.

As they walked up a steep hill to a small cedar-shingled home, Jim slowed and then stopped. Blair wondered what he was sensing as he stared at the house. The three men stood in the drizzle; the only sound was the water slapping against the pilings, the wind moving through the cedars, and Blair's teeth chattering. Jim put his hand on Blair's shoulder, who moved as close as he could, their slickers crinkling.

"It's bad, Jimmy," his uncle finally said. "I'm sorry. You need to brace yourself; she's not the woman you remember."

Jim nodded, silent. Blair looked up at the two men, so much alike in appearance and behavior. Jim glanced at him and, catching his eye, smiled. He bumped his shoulder into Blair, an old gesture but one that made Blair smile in return. "Let's go," Blair whispered, and put his arm around Jim as they started up the hill again.

An older Latino with wavy graying hair opened the door as they neared, and then held open the screen door. An enormous tabby cat shot out, skidded to a halt, and then shot back in. "I *told* you it was raining," he said to the cat, and then smiled at Steve. "Get out of the rain, you old fool. You're no smarter than that cat."

Blair watched as Steve wrapped his arms around the smaller man and buried his face against his neck. "Oh, Wes," he heard him murmur.

Wes hugged him, then gently pushed him back. They kissed lightly on the lips, and then Wes said, "Introduce me to your nephews."

Blair didn't have time to wonder about being named as Steve's nephew before Steve said, "Yeah, oh, Jimmy, Blair, this is my partner, Wes Rodriguez. Wes, Jimmy Ellison and Blair Sandburg."

"Howdy." He held out his hand to them, leaving one arm wrapped around Steve. "I'm sorry it took something like this to meet y'all." His grip was firm, and Blair noticed the wiry muscles in his forearm disappearing into the rolled sleeves of his heavy denim workshirt. "Come in. I've got coffee on and Gracie wants to see you."

At last they stepped into the house. The main room, the living room, was dominated by a tall hospital bed. The head was angled so its occupant had a view of the harbor and, beyond that, Seattle, the Space Needle high in the distance. To the left of the enormous picture window was a very full entertainment center; Blair couldn't identify all the devices on its shelves.

The house smelled of cedar and coffee and lavender and illness.

Blair tore his gaze from the view and looked at Jim, who was staring at the hospital bed. Blair realized he'd been avoiding seeing who was there. He put his arm back around Jim's waist and gently pulled him forward a few steps.

Steve and Wes stood on either side of the bed, smiling. "Gracie," Wes said in a completely different voice. "Hey, sweetheart. Wake up for Wes, okay?" He reached and gently helped her lift her head.

Blair tugged again, and Steve looked up, a tender smile on his face. "Come on, Jimmy," he encouraged. Blair felt Jim tremble in his arms and tightened his grip. A few more steps and Jim took Steve's place at his mother's bedside.

She was skeletal in her fragility, her pale skin nearly blue. Her grey-brown hair was longer than Blair's, worn in two thin braids. Wes gently stroked her bangs to one side and her eyes fluttered open. "Darlin', little darlin'," he crooned in an impossibly affectionate and playful voice, and she smiled tremulously. "That's my girl."

"Wes," she whispered.

"That's right, it's old Wes. You just open your eyes, darlin'; there's someone here to see you."

Obediently, she raised her paper-white eyelids, and Blair saw the same pale blue in her son's and brother's faces looking up, first at Wes, then at him, and finally at Jim. "Stevie?" she asked, sounding worried.

"No, Grace," Steve answered. "It's Jimmy."

"Jimmy?" Tears filled her beautiful eyes and rolled onto her face, immediately lost in the maze of tiny wrinkles. "Jimmy?"

"Mom?" Blair didn't recognize his friend's voice. He held on tighter, one arm still wrapped around Jim's waist, the other knotted into the jacket under his slicker. "Oh, Mom."

She smiled brilliantly at him, Jim's smile, the smile Blair lived for, and fell asleep, the smile slowly leaving her lips.

For a moment more the four men remained at her bedside, then Wes said, "Get those wet clothes off, why dontcha, and Stevie, you get the fire built up. Then we all need to set a spell. We have some things to tell you boys."

It was clear to Blair who was in charge here, and he couldn't help but smile as Jim instinctively moved to obey Wes's firm instructions. They hung their slickers and jackets from hooks in the mudroom at the back door, and, following Steve's example, left their wet shoes there, too.

They sat at a round kitchen table, a dark cherry wood, Blair thought, and watched Steve feed the kitchen stove until its fire was roaring comfortingly in the damp house. Wes poured them cups of amazingly strong coffee; Blair could feel the caffeine hit his system almost instantly. The next thing he knew, big slices of lemon meringue pie were sitting in front of all four of them.

"This is delicious," he said, his mouth full, and Wes smiled at him.

"Specialty of the house. Gracie taught me to make it. Old O'Malley recipe. I'll make sure you get a copy."

"An O'Malley recipe made by Rodriguez and Sandburg," Blair joked, and Wes smiled approvingly.

"What's wrong with my mom?"

Jim hadn't taken a bite, and Blair could see the coffee in his mug was trembling. He put a hand over Jim's so he wouldn't spill any; Jim's fingers curled around his own. He wondered what Wes and Steve would think, and immediately realized that he already knew and didn't mind at all.

After a few seconds, Wes answered, "The doctors aren't sure. She's had a series of heart attacks over the last ten years. A bypass operation. Then more heart attacks. Now she simply isn't eating. Says everything tastes like shit." He looked at Jim almost defiantly. "If you knew your mother, you'd know she means that literally."

Jim stared at him, and then said faintly, "I don't know my mother at all."

"Wes." Wes shifted uncomfortably. "It isn't Jimmy's fault. You know that."

"Yeah, well. He's a detective. He coulda found out easily enough. It's not like she was hidin'."

Blair felt a need to defend his friend. "We thought she didn't want to see Jim."

Steve said, "That was his dad's doing, Blair. Not Grace's. She loved her boys. He sent her away."

"Why?"

There was a long silence. Wes and Steve exchanged glances, and then Wes got up and went back to the side of Grace's bed, fussing with her sheets. Steve sighed heavily. "The three of us have been together a long time. Ever since Bill sent her away. Gracie and I were always close as kids, but when things got bad. It was just natural." He shook his head.

"I don't understand." Jim sounded more lost than Blair had ever heard him. He wanted to do something, but he didn't know what, so he sipped his coffee and watched.

Wes came back to the table and stood near Blair. "We heard about your dissertation, son," he said. Blair felt himself blush.

"It wasn't a dissertation," he started, but Wes put a hand on his shoulder.

"Blair. We know. Grace is what you said was a sentinel. That's why Bill sent her away, that prick. He knew what Jimmy was. He thought it was catchin' or somethin'."

Blair stared up at Wes. He felt numb and a bit dizzy, as if he were still bobbing in the small boat, wet from the rain and the whitecaps.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy," Steve said, reaching out to take Jim's hand. "God forgive me, but I didn't know what to do. Wes brought us out here and we've stayed here ever since. It's easier on Grace, being away from people."

Blair wondered what Jim was feeling, because he sure didn't know what he was. Shock. Fear. A kind of horrified excitement. He'd known Jim's senses were genetic. It was logical that they would come from his mother.

And Wes's question was a good one: Why hadn't Jim sought out his mom? He was free of his father's influence now, and had been for many years. He was friends with his brother Steven again, after long years of estrangement. It would have made sense to seek her out. Yet it had never occurred to Blair, or he would have insisted. If only to do some tests, he realized, feeling guilty.

Jim suddenly stood up. "I need to take a walk." Blair rose with him, but Jim patted his face lightly. "I'll be right back, Chief," he promised, and Blair sank down into his chair again, already worried about being separated from his friend.

"Fifteen minutes, man," he finally said, in as forceful a voice as he could. Jim smiled and nodded, then went through out the kitchen door, disappearing into the mudroom. When the door shut, Blair sighed and rolled his head back, listening to the bones in his neck pop.

"I'm sorry, Blair," Steve said, and Blair opened his eyes. "We should've got in touch earlier." Wes patted his shoulder again and sat down next to him, in Jim's chair.

"All the O'Malleys are fools," he said confidingly, and Blair smiled.

"And Jim's half O'Malley, so he's half a fool?"

"With looks like that?" Wes raised his eyebrows. "Didn't get them from his dad, that's for sure. Naw, he's an O'Malley, through and through. So he's all fool." He smiled at Steve. "Just like his uncle."

"You are such a prick."

"Tease."

Blair felt himself blushing, but he enjoyed their banter. "How long have you guys been together?"

"Longer than you've been alive, kiddo," Wes said. "Met him at a wrestling match." To Blair's amazement, now Steve was blushing. "I was coaching Cascade High's wrestling team and this tall handsome guy comes in -- why were you there?"

"You know perfectly well I was there with Scott Tomlinson."

"Oh, yeah. Dating Scotty."

"Wes. That was thirty-six years ago. Would you chill about Scott?"

"He might've arrived with Scotty," Wes said, and Blair realized this was all an act, to make him laugh and relax, "but he sure as hell didn't *come* with Scotty." And Blair did laugh, liking both men for the effort they were making.

Poking at the meringue, patterning it with the tines of his fork, Blair said, "How did Grace come to live with you?"

"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in," Steve reminded him. "Our folks were gone; it'd been just Grace and me for a long time. When Bill insisted she leave, she came to me. We've been together ever since."

"Why did Bill insist she go?"

"Same reason he beat up those boys of his," Wes said in a hard voice.

"He never beat his children," Steve countered.

"You don't have to strike a child to beat him." They stared at each other across the table, but Steve dropped his eyes first.

"Wes thinks we should have tried to get custody," he finally said to Blair. "But thirty years ago, no court in the world would've granted custody to a mother living with her queer brother and his lover. All the fight would've done would've hurt the boys even more."

"Does Steven know? Jim's brother, I mean?"

Steve nodded. "Stevie did look for us. We're not hard to find. When Jim had -- When we thought he was -- After the crash in Peru," but his words gave out, and Blair saw how much he'd missed his nephews and, through that, how much Grace had missed her sons. Steve shrugged. "I guess being estranged from his father and losing a brother was too much; he wanted to find her. She wanted to be found."

"I'm sorry," Blair said, not sure what he was apologizing for.

"Not your fault, son," Wes said. "You've been a good influence on that boy. We've watched you. On the news, in the paper. You weren't hard to find, either."

Well, not much to say to that, Blair thought. He was surprised when he felt Wes's hand on his shoulder again.

"We're real proud of both of you," he said fiercely, and Blair blushed yet again. "You and me, Blair. We gotta work to keep this family together. Especially after . . ." but his voice trailed off, and Blair realized how much Wes loved Grace. His sister-in-law, really.

He glanced over Wes's shoulder and saw she was still asleep.

"She sleeps almost all the time now," Steve said softly. "It's for the best. I know that. It's just -- real hard. Real hard," he repeated even more quietly.

The backdoor opened and Jim came in, face wet from the rain. Blair jumped up and grabbed a couple paper towels from the roll under a cabinet and Jim wiped his face and blew his nose. Blair poured out his cold coffee and brought him a fresh cup, sitting him down next to his uncle this time.

"Sorry," Jim muttered into the cup. Blair stood irresolutely, not sure what to do. Wes caught his hand and pulled him over.

"Remember what I told you about them O'Malleys," he said, and winked at Blair.

Blair saw Jim was shivering, minute tremors, perhaps from the cold and damp. He stood next to his partner and put his arm over his shoulder, relaxing as he felt Jim relax into his support. "You talk to your uncle Steve," he said sotto voce, knowing Jim would hear him. After a few seconds, Jim smiled and nodded his head.

"Thank you for bringing me up here, Uncle Steve."

Steve's smile told Blair how happy he was to hear Jim's words. "Thank you for coming, Jimmy. I've missed you so much. I still think of you as that skinny little kid I used to shoot baskets with."

"Oh, god, that was fun," Jim said, sounding more like himself. "All those evenings in the driveway. You, Stevie, and me. Mom bringing us hot cider afterwards."

They reminisced for a while. Blair continued to stand next to his friend, gently rubbing his shoulders. Jim reached up and took Blair's hand. Blair felt his stomach clench, with excitement, with pleasure, with fear. Here, with Wes and Steve, anything seemed possible. Everything seemed safe.

At last, when their talk quieted, Jim asked, "How long?"

Steve looked at Wes, who answered sadly. "Not long." When Jim continued to stare at him, he shrugged. "Three times a week, a day nurse from Puget Sound Hospice comes out. Gracie wants to -- she wants to die here. Lookin' out at the Sound." His voice got thicker. "With all of us here."

"Stevie should be here," Jim said softly.

"He'll be here tomorrow. He wanted to give you a day alone with her."

"He's been here?" Blair tightened his grip on Jim's shoulder. "No one told me." Blair thought Jim sounded ten again, left behind for reasons he would never understand, never accept.

"It's okay, Jim," he murmured. "It happened when you were MIA in Peru. He needed someone and he didn't have you." Blair felt Jim's muscles contract; for a moment, he was afraid Jim would leave again, just run out of the house into the increasingly hard rain, away from the memories, away from the future. He massaged Jim's shoulders firmly, trying to relax the tension from those muscles as much as trying to keep him in place. Under Blair's watchful and loving eye.

"I understand," Jim finally said.

"Jimmy?" They all stood instantly at Grace's soft voice. Jim strode to her bedside and carefully took her hand.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hey. You're so big."

Jim smiled at her, and Blair thought his heart would break. "Yeah. I'm taller than Dad now. As tall as Uncle Steve."

"I named you for my father; did you know that? Jamie O'Malley. He was a tall man, too." Tears fell out of her eyes. "I miss my father, Jimmy."

"Shh, shh," he whispered, bending over her, gently wiping the tears from her face with his fingers. "It's okay, Mom. Everything will be okay."

"I love you, sweetheart," Blair thought he saw her say, and from Jim's face, he knew he was right. Jim leaned over and kissed her cheek, then her hand. Grace was asleep before he tucked it back under the covers.

Jim turned and looked at Blair. "Next time she's awake, you step up here, Chief. She needs to meet you before --" After an awkward silence, Blair nodded.

"He's right," Steve said, surprising Blair. "She needs to meet you, Blair. She needs to be reassured that Jimmy's not alone. I just wish Stevie had somebody."

"Just hasn't found the right man," Wes told him, and slid his arms around Steve's waist. Blair found himself longing to go to Jim and do just that, but he felt shy. He looked up at Jim who was watching Wes and Steve raptly.

Wes looked over Steve's shoulder at them. "You two go get settled in your room. It's the door on the left at the end of the hallway. Have to share a bathroom with the three of us. Sorry. I put your towels in your bedroom."

"That's okay," Blair said at the same time Jim did, and they smiled at each other.

"Come on, Chief," Jim said, and kissed his mother's sleeping face again before turning to get their packs and carrying them down the dark hallway.

The room was small, nearly entirely filled with the queen-sized bed. There was a handsome comforter on top, white with deep red and navy bars across it. A low chest-of-drawers with a long mirror over it and two tiny night tables on either side of the bed. A bookshelf above the head of the bed was filled with well-read paperbacks. A high window looked out onto the lawn; through it, Blair saw a deer nibbling apples tossed onto the grass.

Behind him, he heard Jim lie down on the bed. "Jesus," Jim whispered, and Blair turned. Jim had one arm across his face. He climbed onto the bed and shyly lay down next to him.

"I'm sorry about your mom," he said again, and Jim's arm came away. Blair could see he'd been crying a little; his eyelids and nose were red and his eyes especially blue.

"Thank you for coming with me." Blair nodded, wishing he could do more. "This is gonna be pretty awful, isn't it, Chief."

"I think so."

"Shitty, in fact."

"Terrifically shitty. Astoundingly shitty. Shitty beyond all previously known shittiness."

Jim smiled at him. "Thank you, Miss Sunshine."

"Hey, you asked."

"That I did. When will I learn."

"Never, I hope."

They smiled at each other, and Blair impulsively rolled to Jim and tried to hug him. They shifted positions clumsily until they could lie together. It occurred to him how weird it was, to share a bed with Jim, to be holding Jim in bed, but Blair drew much comfort from Jim's warm presence, and hoped he offered the same to his friend.

He woke alone in the bed; it was dark out. Someone had pulled the comforter over him and had drawn the curtains.

Halfway down the hall he found the bathroom, so he washed his face and ran his fingers through his hair, back to shoulder length now and curling wildly in the humidity, sticky with salt from the boat ride over.

Jim was leaning over his mother's bed again, that same tender, incredulous smile on his face. He looked up and the happiness that bloomed on his face when he saw Blair made him stop at the end of the hallway. I did that to Jim, he thought. I made him look like that. He walked with confidence to Jim's side and leaned against his friend, looking down into Grace's smiling face.

"You're Blair," she said, sounding stronger than he'd heard her before.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Gracie."

"Yes, Gracie."

"Wes and Steve and Stevie have told me all about you. You take care of Jimmy, don't you."

"Yes, ma'am, Gracie. I try. I really, really try," and for some reason, Blair couldn't talk anymore, his throat was thick with the effort and he felt himself blushing again. She slowly put out her hand and he took it, feeling enormous next to her fragile delicacy. Very shyly, he raised himself on tiptoe and leaned over the bed, kissing her cheek the way he'd watched Jim do. She smiled at him.

"Thank you."

He felt Jim's arm come around his back and, without letting go of Grace, leaned into him. Let Grace think what she wants, as long as she knows her son is loved, he told himself. While he watched, he saw her sink into that other place, sleep, or dreams, or some neighbor of death. He carefully laid her hand down and backed into Jim, who gave him a short squeeze before releasing him.

"Let's help your uncles with dinner," he said, and Jim smiled.

After dinner, after cleaning up the kitchen, Wes and Steve sent them out for a walk. "We need to take care of your mom," Wes told them. "There are some things sons don't need to see about their mothers. Give us thirty minutes."

It felt good to get out into the fresh air. Blair realized again that there was a smell of death in the house, and wondered how Jim was handling it. He'd shown no signs of zones, had made no comments, but if Blair had noticed it, he knew Jim certainly had as well.

To Blair's surprise, he saw even more deer. Down near the dock, there were tall streetlights, and under them the deer grazed, nibbling on the short grass. "It's like a Disney movie," Jim said wonderingly.

"No predators on the island," Blair speculated. "Except for humans, of course." They watched the graceful creatures, careful of them; every cop knew about the Bambi syndrome, when people were injured because they had tried to approach deer, not realizing that they were strong, fierce animals. The rain had softened to a drizzle, but there was still a stiff breeze, so they turned away from it and headed further up the hill, following a narrow path into the forest.

Once into the forest, a different quiet descended on them. Blair could no longer hear the waves climbing the beach or the water slapping against the boats; they were protected here even from the wind by the thick undergrowth and tall trees. Far away, he could hear the treetops tossing, but it was still and dry beneath the canopy.

Jim tugged on his jacket and he stopped. Ahead of them, a raccoon waddled along, leaving tiny handprints in the mud. He disappeared behind a rotting log. An owl hooted, hunting. Blair closed his eyes and listened; he thought he could hear the small nocturnal creatures out, scavenging, hunting, mating. Dancing the dance of life and death.

He opened his eyes to find Jim watching him. They stared at each other in the silent night. Anything seemed possible. Everything seemed safe.

Jim reached out, as he had a thousand times before, and touched Blair's face. Blair closed his eyes again at his touch, wanting to experience it more fully. Jim cupped his chin, and lightly stroked his cheek and jaw, then slid his fingers into Blair's hair, pulling very gently at its roots. It all felt wonderful, and Blair sighed. He heard Jim step nearer and felt his arms come up and pull him closer. He raised his own arms and hugged Jim. They stood together in the dark woods for a long time.

He rested his head against Jim's jacketed shoulder, feeling his hair and face wick away the moisture there. Yet he was warm and comfortable leaning against his friend. He heard the rustle of Jim's jacket and sighed, snuggling deeper into Jim's arms, remembering how easily Wes and Steve touched and kissed. He wondered how many years of living together, of loving, it took to reach their equilibrium. Blair slowly lifted his head. It was too dark to see Jim's face clearly, just his shape, warm and near. Comforting, as always, and exciting.

Jim leaned down and rested his cheek against Blair's. The gesture was shockingly intimate to Blair, made as it was in the cool, cedar-scented dark not far from where Jim's mother lay dying, his uncles tending her final hours so lovingly. Blair tightened his hold on Jim, trying to comfort him as much as he was comforting Blair.

There was a scuffling sound in the underbrush, and they turned. Jim chuckled. "It's that fat cat of theirs," he murmured into Blair's ear, his breath tickling. "We should go back." Blair nodded, and let Jim guide him back down the winding, muddy path and around to the back yard, so they could enter through the mudroom, leaving their squelching shoes and dripping coats.

The house was nearly dark when they finally stepped into the kitchen, the cat skittering between their legs. The kitchen stove was glowing; Blair could see the heat shimmering above it, and the smell of lavender was stronger. Wes sat at the table, slumped forward; Steve stood behind him, bent over, embracing him tightly. Blair knew they'd been crying.

"Uncle Steve?" Jim said softly. Steve sniffed loudly and turned his head to smile at them.

"It's okay, boys. We're okay. She's asleep now."

Wes slowly stood up, gently pushing Steve away. As Blair shut the door, Wes walked over to them and looked up into Jim's face. "Thank you for coming, son," he said softly. "She'll be more awake in the morning and you can talk some then. There's not much time left, Jimmy. You need to open your heart to her. You won't get many more chances in this life." He kissed Jim on the cheek, and then Blair, and with a look in Steve's direction, left them.

The fire in the stove sighed as the wood inside collapsed. The cat coiled around Steve's long legs, fussing to be held. "Uncle Steve?" Jim said again.

"Wes loves your mom, Jimmy. We've been together so long. He was able to help her more than any doctor, even before she got sick. She always had such bad migraines. Allergies. Seems like everything in this life hurt her, that she was just made for hurt. Even as a little girl."

Blair's heart twisted in his chest when he thought of Grace struggling with her senses. He remembered how confused and angry and frightened Jim had been when they first met. Convinced he'd been drugged or was going crazy. "How did Wes help her?" he surprised himself by asking. Jim gave him a gentle push toward the table and they sat.

"You'll have to ask him. But he figured out what fabrics she could and couldn't wear. Bullied her into taking better care of herself, eating right. Rubbed her head when it was aching." Steve shook his own head. "He quit coaching and stayed home to take care of her when she got bad, and found this place when she needed to get away from people. He's made our lives possible.

"You're like your mom, Jimmy. I knew it when you were little, and I know it now. And Blair's like Wes, taking care of you. That made your mom happy, when we found out. She was so worried about you. She knew your dad was wrong, that you wouldn't outgrow this -- this disability. Curse, she calls it. Says she gets the curse every day." Blair smiled sadly. "And your dad was glad to get rid of me, too. He was afraid I'd infect his boys, turn 'em queer."

"Uncle Steve." There was so much pain and longing in Jim's voice; Blair looked at his friend's strained face. "Why don't I remember any of this?"

"Oh, honey," Steve said, "it's okay. You were just a little boy. We were hiding lots of it from you. You always did try to take on the world, protect your mom and Stevie. You and your mom: you were just made for hurt."

Staring at Jim, Blair thought how true this was. Made for hurt, made for the world to hurt. All the losses in Jim's life, the betrayals, the denials. He reached out and lightly stroked Jim's forearm where it lay on the table; the muscles were knotted with tension.

"You boys go to bed," Steve said finally. "I'll close up. I need to be up early to pick Stevie up; he's staying in Seattle tonight. Probably looking for the island right now, out his hotel window." Blair looked out the windows, to where Seattle gleamed and glittered in the cold night. Like Dorothy looking to Oz, he thought, and patted Jim's arm.

"Come on, Jim," he said, and Jim and Steve both rose. After an awkward moment, Jim stepped near his uncle and hugged him; Steve pulled his nephew tightly to him and, as Wes had, kissed his cheek.

"It's so good to see you. I don't want to lose you again, Jimmy." When they broke apart, Jim almost fled the room, not looking at either of them. Steve and Blair exchanged wry grins. "Sorry to give you more work, Blair."

Blair hugged Steve, too, and felt another kiss. "That's my job, man," he said more cheerfully than he felt. He paused by Grace's bed, but she was again in that distant place of peace. Not wishing to disturb her, he went on down the hall to their bedroom, wondering what he'd find.

He wasn't surprised to see Jim neatly hanging up their clothes, shaking the wrinkles out from having been wadded into their backpacks. "Hey, man," he said, plopping onto the bed, nearly bouncing Jim's pack off it. "Wanna shower first?" Jim nodded but didn't speak. "Then go. I'll finish up."

"I'll do it."

He climbed off the bed and took the sweater from Jim's hands. For an instant, Blair thought he would fight for it, but he stepped back. Picking up the towels from the chest-of-drawers, he stopped at the door. "Thanks for coming, Chief."

"There's no place I'd rather be," he answered honestly, remembering a similar moment in Peru all those years before. Then Jim disappeared across the hall and a few minutes later he heard water in the pipes.

Sleeping with Jim was always a secret pleasure for Blair. In a tent, in the truck, on the couch while the tv murmured: he loved the warmth, the security, the comfort Jim's presence added to his life, and sharing a bed with him only increased those feelings. With Steve and Wes across the hall, climbing in next to Jim after he'd taken his own shower seemed freighted with meaning and possibility. He rolled up, trying to retain body heat, but stretched out when Jim moved next to him, tucking Blair half on top of himself, one arm over Blair's shoulder.

What the hell, Blair thought, and cuddled up. It was sensual but somehow not sexual this night. The extreme emotions of the last few days had, perhaps, seen to that. Or maybe it was the presence of Wes and Steve and Grace so near. Or Jim's sadness, his impending loss. But Blair felt free to embrace his friend without fear of misunderstanding, and that freedom released his heart so he was able to acknowledge to himself how very much he loved Jim.

He wondered where that love would take him. If Jim would be able to make that trip with him, and whether he would survive if Jim decided he couldn't.

He woke still wrapped in Jim's arms, his back now spooned against Jim's chest. It was dark, but he could hear soft voices and an occasional thump. Steve, up to fetch Steven from the mainland, he assumed, and burrowed deeper into the bedclothes and nearer to Jim, whose regular breath at the nape of his neck he discovered to be a wonderful soporific. The screen door shut, and Blair fell back asleep.

When he woke the next time, Jim was awake, too. Jim touched his face in the familiar and much-loved gesture. A creamy light filtered through the blue curtains, just enough so Blair could see Jim's sleepy smile. "Good morning."

"Morning, Chief. Stevie's here." Blair started to sit up, but Jim tugged him back down. "Blair." He looked into Jim's face and saw something new there, something he wanted to see again. "Blair, I. You."

Blair took Jim's hand. "I know. Me, too." They smiled at each other. "We gotta get up."

Steven was trying to coax his mother to eat, a bowl of rice pudding in one hand, a spoon in the other. When he saw Jim and Blair emerge, he said, "Just one bite, Ma. I won't bother you anymore if you take just one bite." His voice was tight, fragile. Jim moved past Blair to his brother's side, Blair following more slowly.

Grace was awake, and smiling ruefully at her sons. "I'm sorry, Stevie," she said, her voice a little louder than it had been yesterday. "Please don't ask me."

"Mom," he said, and Blair put his hands on the cold bed railing at the sound. "You do understand the logical consequences of not eating."

She nodded. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I would if I could. Please don't ask me to do this."

Wes appeared at Blair's side and gently took the spoon and bowl from Steven's hands. "It's okay, darlin'. We understand."

"Mom," Steven said again, and Jim put his arms around his brother.

"You always took care of Stevie," Grace said, and then she looked at Blair. "And now you take care of Jimmy, don't you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Will you take care of Stevie when I'm gone?"

Blair didn't know what she meant, but he wasn't about to deny this woman anything. "Yes, ma'am." Dinner with Steven once a week, he thought; call him a couple times a week. Holidays together. Take him camping. Steve patted him on the shoulder.

"We'll help." He led Blair into the kitchen, where Wes was washing dishes. "Now what do you boys like for breakfast?"

Blair couldn't speak. Their domesticity in conjunction with Grace's failing body, her sons' misery, was too much for him; how could he possibly eat?

Wes understood. "You promised her, Blair," he said quietly, and with a start, Blair knew Wes was right. He looked over his shoulder at Jim and Steven, now talking with their mother. Jim looked both younger and older, pleasure lighting his eyes even as the knowledge of his mother's mortality weighed on his shoulders. He glanced up and saw Blair looking at him, and smiled. Blair smiled back and then said to Wes, "He loves eggs. Cholesterol heaven."

As the day wore on, tedious and painful, Blair tried to follow Wes and Steve's example of normality. He insisted Jim and Steven eat, take a walk when their mother napped, and helped Wes roll her so she wouldn't get bed sores. He met the cat, named Chloe, and the deer who ate apples on the lawn. He helped Steve bring in firewood and do the laundry, a daily occurrence since they changed Grace's bedding so often. He even helped carry Grace to the bathroom, leaving her there with Wes.

That evening, while Wes and Steve bathed her, the three younger men took a walk, Chloe darting between their feet. When they stood on the gravelly shore, staring at the lights of Seattle, Jim asked, "What are we going to do?"

"Let her die," Steven answered, his voice dark with fear and anger. "It's what she wants."

"Take a leave of absence," Blair told Jim calmly. "I'll call Simon and make the arrangements. Steve's going into town tomorrow for supplies; I'll go with him and get us underwear and socks, stuff like that."

The brothers turned to look at him; their handsome faces gleamed in the night. "Just stay here?" Steven asked.

Blair didn't answer; of course stay here. How could they leave? Finally, he said, "You need to call your dad, too. He needs to know." From the tension in Jim's shoulders, Blair thought he was angry at the suggestion, but Jim remained silent. Steven put an arm around Jim's upper back and squeezed.

"I'll call him, Jimmy. Blair's right."

Jim sighed heavily. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked miserably. "You should've told me, Stevie."

"I'm sorry. But you never asked me. I would've, if you'd asked." Steven squeezed Jim again, who only sighed once more.

Very hesitantly, Blair asked him, "Why didn't you look for your mom?"

Jim stared at the stones beneath his feet, not answering for a while. Then he shrugged. "It was just easier not to." Which wasn't really an answer, Blair thought, but he let it go.

Steven would sleep on the couch in the living room, not far from his mother's hospital bed. Wes was making it up when they got back, chilled and ready for coffee and the tiny glasses of Irish whiskey that Steve was filling.

To Blair's surprise, he handed one to Grace, helping her hold onto it. Together, brother and sister lifted the glass. "To the O'Malleys and their loved ones," they said in unison, smiling at each other. Blair saw how similar they were in appearance; Jim really was an O'Malley, with their pale skin and eyes. Grace took a sip, or perhaps only pretended to, and then Steve swallowed the rest.

"To our loved ones," Jim echoed, and clinked his glass with Blair's, then Steven's, then Steve's, and finally Wes's. The whiskey was as pale as straw and smelled peaty; in Blair's mouth, the flavor was as soft as the fog drifting across the island and as sharp as the pain of Grace's death.

The next day, Blair left Jim, Steven, and Wes to care for Grace while he and Steve headed through a thick fog across the Sound, to where they left their cars. He was shivering again by the time they climbed into Steve's Lincoln, and resolved to buy himself long underwear and another sweater. And that set the pattern of his days for the next six. Grace was most awake in the morning, so he tried to give Jim and Steven time alone with her then, while he helped their uncles around the house. In the afternoon, Grace, Wes, and Steve napped, so Steven, Jim, and Blair hiked the five-mile circumference of the island, picking their way carefully over noisy streams and silent seeps, accompanied at least part way by Chloe, stopping to sit on the fallen snags returning to the earth, and to watch the grey-and-white waves roll into shore.

One morning, while helping Wes carrying trash out to the boat to take to shore, he shyly asked about Grace's senses. "Bad," Wes said shortly, and tossed the bags into the boat, then dusted his hands. He stared out toward Seattle, then gestured toward the city. "The noise hurt her, you know," and Blair nodded. "The smells. Even the pollution.

"I didn't know what she was, Blair. I mean, I knew she was sensitive, that she could hear stuff really far off, see real good. And Steve told me that Jimmy was like her. A real fussy baby.

"And then Bill -- you know Bill? Yeah, well, then you know. Fussy, too, but in a different way. A real pistol, that guy." Blair was pretty sure Wes didn't mean that as a compliment.

"It was a relief to read in the paper about sentinels. To put a name to it. Like naming a disease, I guess. You're still sick, but you feel better 'cause it's got a name now."

Blair nodded, watching Wes closely. He was Steve's age, maybe a little older, but still in great shape. Taller than Blair and broader, with a wrestler's build even now. He finally turned to look directly at Blair, his gentle brown eyes weary with long-standing grief.

"Don't let Jimmy slip away again, would you, Blair? Steve loves him so much. Grace missed him -- her heart was broke, just plain broke. Him bein' here is the best gift in the world."

Blair looked down at the grey-green water splashing against the sides of the boat, and rubbed his eye. "Yeah," he finally said. "We'll come back. Will you and Steve stay out here? When, uh. After . . ."

"When she's gone? Yeah. Yeah, it's home now. No place else to go. No place else I wanna be. I wanna die like Gracie; lookin' out at the Sound, with my family by my side."

Blair knew as surely as he knew his own name that Wes included him as part of his family. He was deeply moved, and a little overwhelmed. After a few moments, he asked, "When you gonna take the trash over?"

Wes kicked at the side of the boat. "Tomorrow. Steve'll take it in when you go. We got a deal with the owner of the restaurant where we leave our car that we use his dumpster; just pay him each month."

And that was that, for a while.

On one outing with Steve, Blair bought Jim a handsome wool sweater, deep maroon, with a roll-neck top. Grace loved that sweater and would stroke its soft curly texture with pleasure while she listened to her son. And Blair loved listening to him. Jim had turned into a raconteur, with wonderful, funny stories about his work, his life with Carolyn and now with Blair, anecdotes about poker nights with his co-workers, and memories of his childhood with Steven and Grace. Blair sat at the kitchen table, peeling carrots or working crossword puzzles, listening, absorbing, learning about his friend.

Each day, Grace was weaker. Part of Blair wanted to rush her to a hospital, and he had a long talk with Wes and the hospice nurse one afternoon, trying to understand what was going on, to prepare to comfort Jim when the time came. He learned of Grace's long stays in hospitals, her many heart surgeries, the ulcers lining her esophagus and stomach. And at night, he comforted Jim, holding him as he lay shuddering in their bed, listening to the wind toss against the windows, cedar needles patter onto the roof, and the owls call to their prey.

Helping Steve with the laundry, Blair listened to him talk about his life with Wes and Grace. "We tried living in the Southwest for a while, since Wes was born there. We thought the clean air might help Grace. But it was too hot for her. And the mirages -- you know how when you look off in the distance and there's a thin wavery light over the desert floor? She used to get hypnotized or something by that. We'd find her staring at them, lost. She'd get sunburned, heat exhaustion." He shook his head, poking at the sheets in the washer. "Really scary."

"Zones." He looked at Blair. "They're called zones, or the zone out factor. When one sense overwhelms all others. One of the drawbacks to being a sentinel."

"One," Steve said dryly, and Blair flushed.

"Steve, I'm sorry. If I'd known, I could've helped. There're meditations and breathing exercises that help. I've taught Jim how to focus and how to ground himself before focusing too strongly on anything."

Steve shrugged, then pulled a box of detergent off the shelf above the washer. "Too late now, Blair. We managed. Moved back up here, and then out to the island. This has been good for her here. It's so quiet and calm. She's spent most of her years here staring out into the Sound, walking in the forest, watching the deer. Not a bad life."

Blair nodded. Not a bad life, but not a full life, either. He felt pride, that he'd helped Jim, and sorrow, that in order to continue to help Jim, he'd had to refute his work. How many others were there suffering, who could've used what he'd learned working with Jim? But that was a fruitless question. For Blair, there was only Jim.

That night, as they prepared for bed, Blair shyly asked Jim if he'd talked to his mom about their abilities. Jim had frozen for a moment, then continued folding his clothes, not looking at Blair.

"Yeah. A little," he'd finally said. Not exactly encouraging. But a moment later, he'd added, "She says she knew I was like her right from the beginning. In the cradle, she says," and he blushed a little.

"A fussy baby," Blair recalled what Wes had told him. Jim gave him a warning look, but that only made Blair laugh, so Jim tried to snap him with his just-folded tee shirt. Blair danced out of the way. "I'm gonna get pictures of you as a baby," he warned.

"Naomi already gave me pictures of you as a baby, so it's a stalemate."

Blair sat on the bed, then rolled onto his back, staring up at Jim. He looked different, somehow. As if being among his family had changed him, or at least changed the way Blair saw him. A tall, pale people, he thought, and smiled. He and Wes were the short, dark ones, the Others. "Did you know your uncle Steve was gay?"

Jim shook his head as he shut the drawer. "No one told me, and I was pretty little when he disappeared. You know what my mom told me? That her uncle Steve was gay, too. And her cousin Granuaile."

"Granuaile?"

"It's Gaelic for Grace."

"Wow. So, it's, like, in your family."

"What, Gaelic? We are O'Malleys. From County Mayo."

Blair smiled at the pride in Jim's tone. O'Malley, not Ellison.

And Rodriguez. And Sandburg.

As they settled into their bed, Blair thought again how weird it was to sleep next to Jim, to listen to him sink into sleep, his breath evening out, his body growing more relaxed, rolling into Blair's space and warmth. Taking comfort, Blair knew, from his presence and his love.

Blair lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, remembering the day: Jim's face as he watched Steven with their mother, his voice as he spoke to her, catching up on thirty years of missed opportunities. His hands, as he helped Grace turn, or dried the dishes, or tugged at Blair's ponytail. Watching his pleasure at being with his mother made Blair wonder yet again why Jim hadn't sought her out, but he knew it wasn't something he could ask. Jim had been hurt enough; he didn't need to blame himself any more than he already did.

The sixth night, Jim pulled Blair into his arms with a frightened urgency that spoke to Blair's heart and body. He kissed Jim's face, his cheek and forehead, and felt Jim relax against him, his sigh gusting against Blair's face. "It's okay, it's okay," he whispered to Jim, who shook his head.

"Soon, Blair. I can tell. Some smell, or something, I don't know. Chief, my mom --" and Blair clutched at him, holding him so tightly it must've hurt, but Jim held on, too, tight, tighter, in that long, tense night. Neither man slept much, waiting anxiously for morning.

Long before dawn, however, Steven woke them, shaking them both, his face wet. In the living room, Wes held Grace, his arms around her shoulders, and Steve had his arms around Wes as he bent over her bed. No one spoke. The cold lights of Seattle glittered in the distance, the only illumination in the night.

Shyly, Blair came around the bed to see Jim take his mother's face in his hands and kiss her. She was unconscious, as frail as a cut flower trembling in a crystal vase. Steven leaned against his older brother and they stared down at their mother. Her breathing was light, fluttering, irregular. He felt a powerful desire to bolt, to flee this house of death, to leave this family of sad, damaged men; he wanted his own mother, to know she was safe and alive and lively. He watched Jim gently lower his mother's head until she rested against Wes's strong shoulder and then, releasing her, he put one arm around Steven and the other around Blair.

Blair didn't know how long they stood there, watching Grace's life leave her, leave them. His legs were shaking and his heart pounding as if he'd run all the way from Seattle when at last Wes lay her down and kissed her forehead. He realized her bladder had relaxed in death, but felt no embarrassment, just a deep sadness for Grace's men. Then he realized that he was one of those men.

When he looked up, Steven was hugging his brother, his face hidden against Jim's shoulder. Jim looked at peace, eyes moving from Grace to Steven to Wes and finally to Blair, who lifted his arm and wrapped it around Steven so the three of them embraced.

Hours later, Blair sat on the cold dock with Wes, waiting for the coroner and sheriff to arrive. They'd brought their coffee down with them, leaving the three O'Malley men alone with Grace. "So," Wes asked, staring out into the harbor. "How's it feel bein' part of this family?"

Blair smiled, a little bit. "Never been part of a family before. Just me and my mom."

Wes nodded. "Yeah. Me, too. Some white boy got my mom pregnant when she was a kid. Her folks kicked her out and she just had to get by, you know? But we always managed. My high school wrestling coach finally married her when I was sixteen, the same age that she had me. Always figured that's why I became a coach, too."

"What's Steve do?" Blair realized he'd never asked before.

"Retired now, but he was an art historian. Wrote a coupla books; you can look them up on Amazon.com. One's about Frank Stella."

They sat in a companionable silence, Chloe butting her head into their backs and knees, waiting.

Two days later, they shook Grace's ashes into the Sound, standing on the north face of the island. Bill Ellison was there, shy and solemn, overdressed in a suit, and his housekeeper Sally. Jim wore the maroon sweater Blair had bought him, the one his mother had liked so much. The afternoon was grey, the island swathed in a thick white fog, moisture settling heavily onto Blair's face and hair.

At last, Wes said, "William Thackery wrote that 'a good laugh is sunshine in a house.' Grace brought a lotta laughter to our lives. Even out here, on this grey island, our home was filled with sunshine because of her. I loved her. She was my sister, too." Steve, Steven, and Jim together carefully poured the contents of the small urn over the side of the cliff. Blair leaned forward cautiously, watching the fine grains fall, disappearing into the shreds of fog curling over the grey waves. "Save a little there, boys," Wes told them. "I wanna keep some sunshine in my life."

And that, thought Blair, wiping his eyes, was that. Another life over, gone. Left only in the memories of those still living.

But Jim surprised him, his laconic Jim. "When Stevie and I were little," he told the others, still holding the urn, "we used to climb up into this overstuffed chair with Mom and she'd read to us. Oz. Narnia. The Hobbit." He swallowed. "I felt so safe then. That we'd always be okay, up in that chair." He looked at his father; Blair followed his eyes and saw that Bill was crying, slow tears leaking from his eyes. "When you're a grown up, you realize that nothing's really safe, and that nothing lasts forever. But at least, for a little while, I thought it did. And that's what we need, I think: the illusion of safety and security." He stopped talking abruptly.

Bill wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "I always loved Grace," he said huskily. "I did what I thought was best, and seeing her with Steve and Wes, I always thought it *was* the best for her. But I don't know. I didn't know." He looked at Jim and Steven. "I still don't know."

Steven went to his father and hugged him, patting his back comfortingly. Jim stayed near his uncle, looking to him and then to Blair.

Blair took the urn from him. "You talk to your dad," he said very quietly, and watched as Jim hesitantly picked his way across the rocky ledge. Blair felt Wes behind him, and handed him the urn. Wes put his hands over Blair's and they held it together for a moment. Then Wes nodded approvingly at him, and, taking Steve by the arm, headed back toward the house. Sally followed them and they paused to help her. Remaining behind, Blair waited for Jim.

Standing at the edge of the island, the wind picking up now, he waited for Jim to turn and see him, waited for Jim's slow smile. Waited for Jim.


End file.
